My Life, So Second Hand
by Celtic Aurora
Summary: AU, post Season Five. When Fred's life is returned and her body restored, a strange woman comes to Los Angeles, claiming to have resurrected her. She wants something in return. But she's left it up to Angel and the gang to find out exactly what...
1. Prologue: Back Through the Veil

_**A/N: **Hello to anyone and everyone reading this! Well, I figured after being a fan of Angel since eighth grade (and I'm a day away from being a high-school senior now), I'd finally sit down and write a fanfic of the amazingness of Angel! Not to mention I would have been devoured by plot orcas if I hadn't sat down and done so..._

_So this is a Fred/Wesley or Fresley fanfic. Why? Because they're amazing, that's why. I love them, they're my fave pairing of the show (even more so than Angel/Cordelia and I do love them a lot, too). _

_The title is a part of a line from the song "Into Silence" by the Romanian symphonic band Magica. As this story deals with death and resurrections, I felt it to be fitting._

_Well, I've rambled enough now, so enjoy the story!_

_**Disclaimer: **Joss Whedon owns the awesomeness that is Angel. Anyone you don't recognize, they belong to me. Get it? Got it? Good_

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"You kissed my lips

With those once-cold fingertips

You reached out for me

And oh, how you missed

You touched my face

And all life was erased

You smiled like an angel

(Falling from grace)

We've been slaves to this love

From the moment we touched

And keep begging for more

Of this resurrection."

-_"Resurrection"_ by H.I.M. (His Infernal Majesty)

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**Prologue: Back Through the Veil**

"Why…can't I…stay..?"

Those four simple words were the last that Winifred Burkle had ever known-really, her last coherent memory. After that had followed a moment or two when her last painful breath fled her lungs; Wesley's face had swam before her eyes, becoming nebulous and blurry before fading to black completely.

To her surprise, death was not how she had imagined it. Fred had always thought that death would be uncaring, cold; she thought she'd be cruelly forced to watch her loved ones mourn her, close enough to comfort them, but in a realm entirely of her own, unable to cross to their realm.

More recently, she'd thought she'd be forced to watch that demon, that infection they'd called Illyria, gut her from the inside out and take her over right before Wesley's horrified eyes.

But that didn't happen.

Death was not a cold, black abyss. It was dark, yes, but this blackness was warm and comforting, like a down comforter on a cold winter's night. And while she caught glimpses of what happening in the world she left behind-such things as Wesley stabbing Gunn when he learned of Gunn's part in her death, and Illyria, the illustrious Ancient One, falling to her knees in despair when she found that her once-mighty army had been reduced to nothing more than mere ash.

But it wasn't as though someone had strapped her down and forced her to watch _everything_.

For a while-she didn't know how long it was, it may have only been hours, it may have been months, years even-Fred was content to float along in this state. But at one point-and she couldn't pinpoint a specific day, hour, minute when it happened, it simply wasn't there one minute and was there the next-things changed. It seemed as though her blissful blackness was being invaded; she kept hearing murmuring voices, and a constant, steady beeping. More and more often, strange half-sentences caught her attention:

"…comatose state…"

"…no sign of illness or injury…"

"…body vitals normal and healthy…"

"…no sign of consciousness…"

"…pull the plug soon…"

Pull the plug? She was already dead-they couldn't be talking about her. After all, she was dead, her body hijacked by a powerful demon. But, if not her, then who?

And then, it came: the blinding, brilliant white light. The comforting black embrace vanished; the beeping grew louder. A strange heaviness settled over her, as though someone had tied lead weights to her.

Despite the blinding light, she still forced her eyes open. The first thing she saw were the white walls. The bizarre-looking beds of grey metal and complicated looking levers and springs came next. Hospital beds-she'd seen them several times before, the first time being after an accident with her bike at the age of seven. She was in a hospital room.

_This isn't right…it _can't_ be._

The next thing that came into view were two lumps at the foot of what was presumably her bed, covered in the hospital-standard blue-gray knit blanket. Confused, she willed her left foot to move. At the exact moment that she did, the left lump twitched.

She had a body. A functioning, corporeal body.

Fred lifted her arms; they moved as though her bones were filled with lead, not marrow. She found strange tubes strapped to them, strange needles pushed into her skin where veins were visible. Ignoring those, she grabbed a lock of her hair, holding it out. It was as she had known it in life, a reasonable length, a medium shade of brown, and wavy, though it curled a little at the ends. She let the lock of hair drop, moving her hands to her face, tracing over her features. They, too, were as she'd known them in life: the straight-sloped nose, the high cheekbones, the slightly-sunken cheeks, the full lips, and the gently-sloped brow. Along with these familiar features, she found an assortment of what felt like tubes, presumably the same kind of tubes as the ones decorating her arms. Her breath hitched in her throat.

Winifred Burkle was back from the dead.

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_**A/N:** I know it's a little short, but generally, prologues are. I hope you enjoyed!_


	2. I: Better Off Dead?

_**A/N: **Hello again to all! Welcome all (or, if you've already come to this story once before, then welcome back!) I'm surprised this chapter came so quickly, but I guess I just had inspiration for it. Warning, there's a bit of Wesley-emoness in here, so yeah..._

_Anyways, thank you to **SpeedDemon315**, **Rabidreject**, and **The Brat Princess** for the reviews!_

_Disclaimer: Still don't own Angel. Boy would I have fun if I did, but sadly, these toys are just on loan..._

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"How can you end my affliction

If you're the sickness and I'm the cure?

Too long I've faked this addiction

Another sacrifice to make us pure

You tear me down

And then you pick me up

You want it all

But still it's not enough

You try to tell me

You can heal me

But I'm still bleeding

And you'll be the death of me."

-_"Death of Me"_ by Red

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**Chapter One: Better Off Dead?**

There were many words to describe the present mood of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, the two best of which both started with a 'd': Drunk and depressed.

Presently, he was sitting in the room he had claimed as his office, not at Wolfram and Hart, but instead at the old Hyperion Hotel. Wolfram and Hart was no longer standing, having been demolished in the midst of the apocalyptic battle. Not as though there'd been much to demolish anyway; the employees had fled once Angel and his crew had started to take on the Circle of the Black Thorn and incur the wrath of the Senior Partners. Not to mention a fair portion of the lobby had been destroyed in Angel's fight against Marcus Hamilton, the liaison (well, now former liaison, as he was killed). The Senior Partners had probably found the building worthless after that.

But Wesley wasn't mourning the loss of that damned place. Matter of fact, many times, he'd wanted to take a torch to the place, burn it to the ground and hope that the memories burned along with it. There were too many memories there, most of which were now painful to him. There were all those memories of Lilah (who, no matter what anyone said, he had actually been rather fond of), the memory of the incident with his father and the cyborgs (that one still haunted him frequently), and, of course, all the memories of Fred. Watching her work, seeing how much she cared for others, how she believed in what she was fighting for…kissing her for the first time in his office after bringing closure to a very unusual case.

And then, those memories of watching Illyria hollow her out, of listening to Knox confess that he'd had Fred virtually destroyed so he could bring his precious Ancient One back to the world, of learning that Gunn had essentially traded Fred's life for a brain-boost.

He still hadn't forgiven him for that.

And probably never would.

So as far as he was concerned, taking a torch to Wolfram and Hart and burning those bridges for good would have been the best damn thing in the world.

Sighing heavily, he lifted his glass to his lips, only to find it was completely empty. Scowling, he snatched the bottle-a half-empty bottle of whiskey-from his desk and refilled his desk. Staring into the amber liquid, he heaved another sigh, then raised his glass as if he had something to toast or someone to toast with.

"To being alive when you're supposed to be dead," he muttered, taking a deep drink.

Wesley spoke the truth-by all rights, he should have been dead. While passing out hit assignments for members of the Circle of the Black Thorn, Angel had assigned him to take out Cyvus Vail, a demonic-and extremely old-sorcerer. Unfortunately, Cyvus's magic overpowered Wesley's magic, and he found himself with a long, curved dagger shoved into his gut. Illyria had arrived just in time to see him stabbed, and she had declared his wound mortal. Knowing she couldn't do anything to help him, she had done the only thing she could think to do to ease his pain a little: shift into Fred's persona one last time, allow him to, in a sense, say one last goodbye to the woman he loved.

"_It's gonna be okay,_" she had promised him. "_It won't hurt much longer, and then, you'll be where I am. We'll be together._"

_What a load of rubbish that turned out to be,_ Wesley thought bitterly, draining his glass.

As it would turn out, Cyvus's magic may have been impressive, but his aim left much to be desired. When he stabbed Wesley, he missed his stomach, instead driving the dagger into Wesley's spleen. Painful, yes, but by no means a death blow. The pain of such a blow had caused Wesley to lapse into unconsciousness, and he could only assume that Illyria had mistaken his unconscious state for death. He had awoken several hours later to find himself alone, laid carefully on his back, covered in dried blood (and still bleeding a little), miraculously alive. Cyvus's body was nearby, his entire skull reduced to nothing more than dust.

He had gotten the hell out of there as fast as he could, and, with no other idea as to where to take refuge, he had made his way back to their old office, at the Hyperion, hoping to God they kept a first-aid kit around somewhere. He had been in the midst of looking for one when Angel came in, followed by Spike and Illyria, both of whom were supporting an exhausted, bleeding Gunn.

Needless to say, there'd been quite a big surprise-particularly because Wesley was believed to be dead-and a bit of poking and prodding to make sure he was really Wesley. After waspishly informing them he was still bleeding on the floor, they brought him to the Los Angeles hospital on the back of none other than Angel's new pet dragon, named, of all things, Cordelia.

Three weeks, one emergency surgery, four days recovery time, and a souvenir scar later, here he sat, an empty glass of whiskey in his hand, thinking he was better off dead. It didn't seem as though the brush with death had done anything to change his ways-he'd more or less gone back to the habits he'd picked up after Fred's death.

And he wasn't the only one who'd noticed.

"Why is it you've gone back to how you were?" Illyria asked from behind. He swiveled his chair around and found her standing in the doorway, blinking her shockingly cerulean eyes at him, her head cocked to the side like a curious bird.

"Because I can," he replied simply, refilling his glass.

"What point does it serve, the drinking?"

"It makes me forget, among other things. I can forget the pain, the suffering, her loss-for a while, I can stop feeling as though I'm better off dead."

"It also serves to make you unstable," Illyria reminded him bluntly. "You walk strangely, and call me a smurf, and vomit your feelings and your words to whoever will listen. And you sometimes vomit the contents of your stomach as well."

Wesley gave a sad, bitter smirk. "That part doesn't always make things better. But other than that, I see no bad side to drinking."

"You will destroy your body with that poison. It will kill you."

He lowered his glass, glaring at the demon. "Don't you understand?" he growled. "Dead is where I belong, Illyria. There's nothing left in this world for me now, nothing but you, and-"

"-I am not what you want. It will always be the shell you want, always Fred that you want." She stepped towards him. "You know I can become her. I can lie to you for a while, become Fred." Her features, which were normally so composed, hardened, perhaps out of anger, perhaps out of disgust. "But you would never ask it of me."

He sighed. "I've told you once before, Illyria, the first thing a Watcher learns is how to separate truth from illusions. I can't keep pretending Fred is still alive. That'll kill me faster than drinking will."

Suddenly, Spike charged into the office, disregarding Illyria completely. His platinum-blonde hair was oddly rumpled and disheveled, while surprise and shock twisted his face.

"Oi, Percy-I mean Wesley-you've got to get into the lobby and get in there quickly. There's someone here to see you and you're not going to believe who!" He glanced at Illyria. "You're not going to believe it, either, come to think of it."

Confused and extremely curious, Wesley placed his glass on his desk and followed Spike into the lobby of the Hyperion, where Gunn, Angel, and Nina (who had become a frequent visitor of the hotel) all stared, openmouthed, at a point somewhere near the front doors. Wesley wasn't aware of what he was seeing until he was suddenly and abruptly shoved forward by Spike. He found himself staring deeply into a pair of chocolate-brown eyes, and suddenly swept into a passionate kiss. Too caught off-guard to do anything, he simply stood stock-still until the kiss was broken and he could see who kissed him in the first place.

"Hello, Wesley," Fred murmured lovingly.

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_*cues dramatic music* And she's ba-aaaaaaaaaack!_

_Well, hope you enjoyed, and please come back for more!_


	3. II: Mindfreak'd

_**A/N: **And the chapters just keep rolling right on out, don't they?! Needless to say, I have inspiration and I'm bored, expect chapters within at least two weeks of each other. I can't help it, I'm excited! Anyways...get ready for a hell of a surprise in this chapter, and thanks to **SpeedDemon315**, **Rabidreject**, and **The Brat Princess** for their reviews!_

_**Disclaimer: **Joss Whedon still owns Wesley, Fred, and all the other amazing Angel peoples. Anyone you don't recognize might be mine, though..._

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"Call me a doctor of defense

Maybe I'm a fix

(Baby, I'm a mess)

A diagnosis you'll forget

Call me baby, call me crazy

Yeah yeah yeah

Take these pills everyday

To kill your apathy for living

Yeah, for living

Yeah yeah

This is the sound of your body under fire

These are my eyes finding you in the dark

We are the voices of an underground choir

Save your breath

You won't be hurt"

-"_Under Fire_" by Halifax

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**Chapter Two: Mindfreak'd**

The lights of the nighttime Los Angeles skyline seemed to stretch on for miles and miles, an endless array of luminosity. Looked at from a philosophical point of view, the lights could be seen as beacons, beckoning all the misplaced souls to city that once had been (appropriately) deemed The City of Lost Angels.

But, looked at from a superficial point of view, they were just lights.

Tonight, she didn't know what point of view she wanted to look at things from.

Sequestered between the fifty foot tall H and O of the Hollywood sign, she observed the bustling city with quiet observation. Even at a distance, she could hear the sirens of police cars screaming, the steady droning of engines as planes departed or approached LAX, and the impatient honking of horns on the notorious Los Angeles freeways.

She leaned gently against the H, her dark sapphire eyes still fixed on the glistening, gleaming city ahead of her. A generously applied layer of kohl outlined her eyes, while dusky eye shadow completely the shadowy eye effect that was all the rage. By the light of the waxing gibbous moon, her skin was pale, and had the airbrushed, flawless appearance that any average teenage girl would have been insanely jealous of. Hair the rich black color of a raven's feather tumbled down her back, ending past her shoulder blades, left loose and free. She had the slim, toned body of an athlete, which was presently decked out in a sleeveless black dress that ended around her knees. Three decorative straps were affixed to the front of the dress, while the straps resting upon her shoulders were adjustable, almost like a belt. She wore a pair of combat boots, while a pair of laced up fingerless gloves adorned her hands. A silvery chain hung around her neck, baring a simple charm of a crow.

As she stared straight ahead, seemingly lost in her mind, a twig cracked behind her. Though she made no sudden movement, her lithe body tensed slightly, prepared for whatever may have been coming behind her.

In a rustling of leaves, another young woman appeared at the side of the first woman. She appeared to be like any other girl of the Los Angeles night life: Her brown hair had been left to hang around her shoulders, with small braids intermingled, and she wore a short white dress and matching heels, accenting her lightly-tanned skin. But her eyes, while a lovely shade of brown, seemed devoid and somewhat blank, as if she lacked a soul. She bowed her head respectfully to the black-haired woman.

"Milady," she voiced gently.

"Ah, Cordelia-I should have known you would be back first. Has she come back around yet?"

Cordelia nodded. "She was discharged from the hospital earlier this evening."

"Even better!" the dark-haired woman exclaimed, her pale coral lips turning upward slightly. "Already, things seem to be off without a hitch."

"Marvelous, milady."

"Now, where is your associate?"

"Right here, milady," a voice carrying a thick Irish accent piped up. A young man appeared at the other end of the Hollywood sign, strolling the length of it. Unlike the first woman, he was no gothic lord, and unlike the second woman, Cordelia, he was no night-life looker. Rather, he looked like an average slob plucked from the streets; his dark, close-cropped black curls were mussed, his plaid shirt was untucked, his jeans were discolored at the knees, close to being frayed, and his brown sandals had seen better days. Like Cordelia, his eyes held a devoid, soul-sucked look.

"Nice of you to join us, Doyle," the first woman greeted. "I was beginning to worry."

"Sorry to keep you waiting, milady," he apologized, bowing his head respectfully.

"What's the news, Doyle-does Wolfram and Hart still stand?"

The Irishman shook his head. "Nope-the Senior Partners reduced it to rubble."

"I figured as much."

"But…"

Suddenly, she turned her full attention on the Irishman, he deep cerulean eyes fixed intently on him. "But what, Doyle?"

"I sensed a body somewhere in the rubble-a possible candidate. Part of the lobby is still standing; we could access it and determine if it's worthy."

"That reminds me, milady, I sensed a body on my way back from the hospital, in an old apartment building. Another possible candidate," Cordelia offered.

A pleased smile curled the woman's lips. "Truly, I am blessed to have you both in my service."

"Thank you, milady," Doyle and Cordelia replied at the same time.

She straightened up, tugging on the hem of one of her fingerless gloves, as if it were coming off. "Well, you both said you had potentials for me to see to-lead the way. We're burning moonlight."

***

Wesley placed his hands on Fred's shoulders, gently, so as not to startle her, and pushed her away, holding her at arm's length and studying her like the metaphorical bug under the microscope. The woman of his dreams was standing before him, not quite as he remembered, but, unlike the last time he'd seen the _true_ Fred, she was breathing.

She was…alive?

_Someone's playing a trick on me, a very cruel trick,_ he concluded inwardly. _Of course-the culprit is obvious._

"Illyria," he began in a flat, unamused tone. "What did I just tell you in my office? Remember, our little talk about Watchers, truths, and illusions?"

"I am not doing this, Wesley," the said demon argued bluntly, moving to stand beside Fred. "I was standing behind you the entire time."

"Wes…" Fred's voice was gentle, almost pleading, with a hurt note in it. "Wes, it's really me. It's really Fred. I'm back…I'm back."

He turned his attention back to her, taking her in for a long, silent moment. Her cheeks seemed slightly more sunken in than they usually were, while her hair was carelessly thrown into a messy braid. She wore a pair of plain jeans, slightly baggy on her petite form, and a gray tee shirt bearing the emblem of the local hospital where a breast pocket would have been. Her arms bore large, bruised patches, presumably where needles had been to pump fluids into her system. She wasn't quite perfection, that much was evident.

But she was alive, and she was real. That in and of itself was perfection in his eyes.

"Fred." The word escaped him in a choked gasp, almost a sob. Something-tears, perhaps?-prickled and stung the corners of his eyes, and, with no further hesitation, he pulled Fred back to him, practically crushing her tiny frame against his as he enveloped her in a hug.

"Wes…" she murmured lovingly into his shoulder, resting her head against his chest. He lowered his head, until his brow was resting on the top of her head.

"I thought I would never see you again-see the real, living, breathing you."

She smiled, reaching up and caressing his unshaven cheek. "Oh God, Wes, I missed you so much."

"I missed you, too."

"Yes, yes, that's all fine and well, you missed her, she missed you, it's been one big miss-fest," Spike cut in loudly, stepping up beside them. "Don't keep her all to yourself now, Wesley, pass her around!"

"Spike, do you always have to ruin the moment?" Angel complained, following him. Nina, who had gotten to know the Texan physicist reasonably well between the time she was bitten and he time Fred had died, followed after.

"Pass me around?" Fred asked, looking around. "You all missed me?"

"Of course we missed you, Fred!" Angel insisted. "You're part of the family-having you back is the greatest!"

"So come on over here and give us a welcome back!" Spike finished, a huge grin on his face. Wesley gently relinquished his hold on the woman he loved, and she shuffled over to Spike, who, in a rather surprising gesture, opened his arms and embraced her.

"You're not going soft on me, are you, Spike?" she asked teasingly.

"Consider this a 'welcome back' plus a 'thanks for trying to turn me corporeal that one time' present," he answered, smirking.

"There's the Spike I know," she said, moving on to Angel. The dark-haired vampire pulled her into a hug, holding her almost as tightly as Wesley had.

"Good to have you back, Fred. We all missed you."

"I missed you all, too." She glanced over at Nina, who gave a wave and a small smile, and a grin lit up her face. "Did you and Nina get together while I was gone?"

"Well, um…kind of but not really, see she moved out of his sister's house and needed a place to stay, and we have so much space here so I invited her to stay with me-I mean, obviously not in my room, she has her own room, but she's staying here," Angel stammered out, clearly flustered, rubbing the back of his neck. Everyone could practically see the sweat drops that had to be rolling down the back of his head.

Fred giggled. "Calm down, Angel, I understand what you mean."

"Thank God," was his murmured reply.

"Good to see you again, Nina." She embraced the female werewolf, who hugged her back.

"Nice to have you back, Fred." She leaned in, whispering conspiratorially into Fred's ear. "Maybe Angel will be a little less broody now; you're one of his favorite people."

"Not likely-he's always like that," she whispered back.

"Hey, I heard that!" the aforementioned vampire groused.

Fred then moved to Gunn a hug, only to find he wasn't standing with the others. There was at least ten feet, if not more, between her and Gunn-hell, Illyria was standing close than he was.

Illyria meandered closer, cocking her head to the side as she studied Fred. "You are the shell, Winifred Burkle," she announced, sounding vaguely perplexed. "This is not possible. I overtook your body and destroyed your soul."

_Wow, what do you say to that?_ Fred wondered. "Well, um…"

"You are stronger than I thought, to have come back," the ancient demon decided. She held out an armor-clad hand. "I deem you a worthy figure. Even more so than my pet, Spike."

"I'm not your bloody pet!" he yelled back.

"Um, thank you," Fred replied uncertainly, shaking Illyria's hand. They both let go after a moment; Fred had to admit, it felt awkward shaking hands with the demon that had usurped her body-in a way, it was like shaking hands with herself. Pushing that thought aside, she moved towards Gunn, who looked more and more eager to turn tail and run with every step she took towards him.

"Gunn?" she asked, confused. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," he insisted, a little too quickly.

She closed the distance between them, placing a hand on his wrist. He flinched, moving to draw his arm away.

"Gunn? I'm not going to hurt you."

"You're not?" he asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

"No." She stepped back slightly, opening her arms. "I was going to give you a hug!"

Gunn reluctantly allowed her to embrace him, the entire time looking as though he'd love nothing more than to be able to crawl out of his skin and run. Fred let go after a moment, and two things happened: Gunn practically sprinted halfway across the lobby, and Wesley promptly zipped to Fred's side.

"If none of you mind, I'd like to spend a little alone time with her."

"Go right ahead," Angel replied.

He looked down to the woman he loved. "Is that all right with you?"

She looked back up at him, giving a cute smile that could melt his heart over and over again until the end of time. "I'd love nothing more."


	4. III: Death's Reverse Echo

_**A/N: **Hello to all! And I'm back with another chapter of My Life, So Second Hand! Yay! Anyways, I'd like to thank The Brat Princess, SpeedDemon315, and RabidReject for their reviews (and The Brat Princess for pointing out that I typed something twice because I don't pay attention when I write, lol). I hope you enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: I don't own any characters from Angel. My master, Joss Whedon, does._

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"You search and still wonder

Are we alone among the stars

In this terrible waste of space?

But you can't imagine

That we're a harvest since forever

Just a herd called human race

Feed on me, I've got

Fuel for the ages

That you, you will steal against all odds

Feed on me, and then

Then close the cages

We are, we are just energy for the gods."

-"_Energy for the Gods_"-by Magica

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**Chapter Three: Death's Reverse Echo**

The door to the apartment creaked horribly as it was opened. The apartment building was somewhat shabby as it was, but this particular hallway seemed extra-shabby, as though it was paid hardly any attention at all.

Although, with the putrid scent that was radiating from the apartment in question, that was understandable.

"Ugh, had I known this apartment was going to reek so much, I might have passed over it," Cordelia mused, followed Doyle and the black-haired woman into the apartment. "To be frank, it smells like ass mixed with death warmed over."

"That might be why," Doyle offered, pointing to the half-decayed corpses of a few demons scattered about.

"Oh, God, that is disgusting!" Cordelia cried out, her face twisting in disgust.

Without a word, the first woman wandered over to one of the corpses, kneeling before it and studying it silently for a long moment. When she was done, she turned around, facing her two companions. "Sahvrin demons. Cordelia, please tell me those weren't the potentials you told me about."

She shook her head. "No, milady-the potential I told you about was a human, I sensed it." Her eyes scanned the seedy apartment, finally coming to rest on a severely-decayed corpse lying on the floor. She gestured to the body with a finger. "That's the potential I sensed."

Her face betraying no sign of her inner thoughts, the black-haired woman knelt by the corpse, taking in the condition of her potential new servant.

The body was in sorry shape indeed. No one had attempted any type of embalming, any kind of formal funeral preparations whatsoever, the poor fool decomposing on the floor had simply been left to rot. The state of advanced decomposition meant that large patches of skin were gone, exposing half-rotted organs and clean, white bones. The eye sockets were empty under half-closed lids. The overall stench was ghastly.

Unperturbed, she reached out, placing a hand on the corpse's forehead, her eyes fluttering closed. For a long moment, she remained that way, still as a statue; she soon opened her eyes, smirking.

"His name is Lindsey McDonald," she announced, leaning back slightly. "He used to be a lawyer at Wolfram and Hart. He was killed by a rather depressed-looking green demon…" She touched his forehead again, as if gathering information from his body, or his soul. "An empath demon called Lorne. He works for-" Her smirk widened. "-Angel himself. Lorne was ordered to kill poor Lindsey here once the mission was complete. And now…Lindsey here is simply _screaming_ for revenge." She looked back to Cordelia, nodding approvingly. "Fine selection, Cordelia. Fine indeed. He is worthy."

She reached up, to the back of her neck, unhooking the clasp of the chain she wore. Carefully, she placed the crow charm that adorned her necklace on Lindsey's forehead, halfway between his eyebrows and what was left of his hairline. She then removed a blackened rosary from the straps that adorned the front of her dress, carefully unwinding the rosary beads from the decorative leather. She dangled the rosary over his forehead, making sure the crucifix it bore was above the crow charm. Clearing her throat, she began to speak.

"_Soberiquies miteag dore´az tir sindel,_" she intoned, her voice soft, yet resonating with an ancient power long lost to the world. "_Sila nindel dhyn rath ulu dro. Fvet migste hexund namste, vox retour ame…_"

As she went deeper and deeper into the litany, passion began to weave its way into the power of her voice. A strange sort of presence began to fill the room, noticed almost instantly by Doyle and Cordelia. Doyle, who had been present at Cordelia's resurrection, recognized this sensation instantly-the presence was the soul of Lindsey McDonald, pried away from some distant nether realm to join them back on Earth.

"Dro vitaug monte deu!"

As she finished the incarnation, the corpse before her began to change. The decayed patches of skin began to regenerate before the eyes of everyone, while two bloody gunshot wounds in his chest healed over, leaving only smooth, unblemished skin behind. Long brown hair sprouted from bare patches on his scalp, while under his eyelids, eyeballs formed once more. A moment of silence followed the last words of the incantation, and then, Lindsey took a loud, gasping breath, his eyes flying open. He sat up, looking around rapidly.

"You can't kill me!" he shouted. "I'm not going to be taken down by a lackey! No, if Angels wants to kill me, he should get his undead ass down here and…" His eyes came to rest on Doyle, Cordelia, and the black-haired woman. "Kill…me…himself…um, who are you?"

"I have many names, Lindsey McDonald," the black-haired woman answered. "The Mistress of Death, the Death Echo, the Goddess of Death, the Angel of Resurrection, and I could keep going. My fellows call me by name, that name being Morrigan. Morrigan Echo Dolan. You, however, are to address me as Master-or Mistress, if you prefer. And milady." She gestured to her two other followers. "I believe you've already met my faithful followers, Doyle and Cordelia. They'll be your new associates."

Lindsey blinked at her, baffled. "Huh?"

"I have a…influence over the dead, shall we say?" she explained slowly, as if speaking to an exceptionally daft person. "I can bring them back to life, if I so desire. Cordelia found your rotting corpse and brought it to my attention. I could sense the desire for revenge on the vampire, Angel, practically pouring off of you. You were unjustly killed, Lindsey McDonald…cut down in your prime, before your time. I merely fixed that problem."

His brow furrowed as he stared at her. "And how do you know so much about me?"

Morrigan smiled at him, a cunning sort of smile. "I have my ways."

She rose smoothly and started for the door, while Doyle and Cordelia helped Lindsey to his feet. Being careful to avoid the rotting corpses of the Savhrin demons, the three followed their mistress to the door.

"Where are we going?" Lindsey asked. "Milady?"

"A special place, Lindsey-one I think you'll find quite familiar. My work isn't done for tonight."

***

As Doyle had said, the once-glorious edifice that was once Wolfram and Hart was now little more than a pile of rubble. A small part of what appeared to be the back wall still stood, like some strange tombstone, marking the final resting place of the once-great law firm.

"My old office?" Lindsey asked, puzzled, as he approached the wrecked building, flanked by Doyle and Cordelia and led by Morrigan. "Who in God's name would you possibly want to resurrect in there?" A bit of a worried look came to his face. "Please don't say Lilah."

Morrigan chuckled. "I have no interest in this Lilah, whoever she is."

Lindsey breathed a sigh of relief as the quartet began towards the demolished law firm. Clambering carefully over the piece of rubble, they soon found an opening in the rubble that was just large enough for a person to squeeze through if they hunched over. Stepping forward, Morrigan shimmied through the crevice, disappearing into the darkness beyond. Undaunted, Doyle, Cordelia, and Lindsey followed after.

Sure enough, a part of the lobby hadn't collapsed, and that was where they found themselves now. Innumerable shards of glass littered the floor, cracking anytime someone stepped on them. The floorboards were torn up in spots, and in some places, they bordered deep chasms that led down into the bowels of the law firm. The receptionist's desk had a support beam in it; a forgotten unicorn figurine lay on the floor by the receptionist's desk, its horn broken off and lying a few inches away. Recognizing it as Harmony's, Lindsey picked it up, observing it for a moment, finding it hilariously ironic that while all the strongest parts of the building lay in ruins, a tiny, fragile figurine survived the damage with nothing more than a broken horn. When he caught Doyle and Cordelia staring at him, he placed it on the desk, pushing it away from where he stood.

Morrigan approached them, glass shattering under her heavy boots as she went. She carried what appeared to be a body in her arms, the body of a young woman with auburn hair…

"Eve!" Lindsey blurted out, shocked. He'd had no idea she had died-he thought she would have escaped when the rafters of Wolfram and Hart fell, gone back to his apartment to wait on a lover who was never coming home. He hurried towards Morrigan, but drew back at Eve's half-decomposed state.

"Don't squirm, you didn't look much better," she scolded, clearing glass shards from a spot on the floor with her boots before gently laying the former liaison on the floor. "Someone you know?"

"His squeeze," Cordelia snickered.

Lindsey fixed her with a glare. "I could say the same about that Euro-trash vampire who killed me-he was your personal squeeze, wasn't he, _Cordie?_"

"Shut up or I'll be removing your hands for good!" Cordelia snapped back.

"'Course, now he's getting it on with a werewolf. Can't say much about his taste in women."

"Why, I ought to-!"

"Children!" Morrigan snapped, glaring up at Lindsey and Cordelia, her sapphire eyes narrowed. "I'm in the middle of a resurrection. You'd both do best to stop arguing like an old married couple."

Both immediately shut up, and Morrigan continued with her litany, summoning Eve's spirit from the same nether realm she had summoned Lindsey's from not two hours earlier. As the last words echoed across the destroyed lobby, Eve's eyes shot open, while she flung her arms up, as if to protect herself from falling rubble.

"Eve…" Morrigan drawled soothingly, gently pushing her arms down. "Calm down. It's over-you're in no danger here."

The former liaison looked around the lobby of Wolfram and Hart, perplexed. "Am I in Hell?"

"If you are, I am," Lindsey assured her, sitting down next to her. Her startled eyes flickered to him.

"Angel said you were dead."

"I am." He paused. "Well, I _was._"

"So…if we're not in Hell, where are we?"

"Earth," Morrigan replied simply, standing up. "America. Los Angeles, to be exact. You see, I resurrected you, and your little boyfriend. And now…" She flashed a devious smile. "I have a job for you to do."

* * *

_"I have a job for you to do", which we all know means she's up to something..._

_Well, now, our mysterious woman has a name, and we have two more familiar faces! Honestly, I am kind of happy to have Lindsey back-he may be evil, but you can't deny, he's very easy on the eyes. _

_Until next time!_


	5. IV: The Genuine, Authentic Product

_**A/N: **Buonasera, everyone! I know this chapter took a while to have in, and I'm terribly sorry about that, but I got sidetracked by other things...lots of other things. Anyways, I did finish it...um, either last week or two weeks ago, and I hadn't found time nor patience to sit down and type it...but now, I have! So I hope you all enjoy the chapter, and thank you to **The Brat Princess**, **SpeedDemon315**, and two new reviewers, **IdiotSavant8009** and **Bonofacio**, for their reviews!_

_Disclaimer: I still don't own Fred and Wes. Or anyone from Angel. And I think the chances of Joss Whedon handing over the copyrights is about a billion and a half to none. So...yeah..._

* * *

"In the brightest hour of my darkest day

I realized what is wrong with me

Can't get over you

Can't get through to you

It's been a helter-skelter romance from the start

Take these memories that are haunting me

Of a paper man cut into shreds

By his own pair of scissors

He'll never forgive her, he'll never forgive her.

Because days come and go

But my feelings for you are forever

Because days come and go

But my feelings for you are forever."

-"_Forever_" by Papa Roach

* * *

**Chapter Four: The Genuine, Authentic Product**

"I can't believe you all moved back to the Hyperion," Fred said as she roamed the upper halls. Wesley followed not even a foot behind her, a constant shadow that stared at her in awe.

"From what I understand, Wolfram and Hart was destroyed-the building, at least," the Englishman explained. "This is the only place we had left to go."

"I thought you had your own apartment." Fred stopped, glancing over her shoulder. "Why live here?"

He shrugged. "Quicker commute. No traffic. No rent. Relatively quiet neighbors, provided Illyria's in a good mood and Nina and Angel are asleep."

She giggled. "It's good to see he's not brooding over Cordie-I mean, obviously, no one's ever going to take her place in Angel's heart, but at least he's not dwelling on it."

"Although, I can understand why he's brooded over some women in the past-Buffy, Darla, Cordelia," Wesley confessed. "When there's a woman you'd give up all that you are for, who you think about ninety-nine point nine, nine, _ad infinitum_ percent of the time, and she's suddenly torn viciously from your arms, you tend to get a bit…broody."

Suddenly, a pair of slender arms encircled Wesley's frame; looking down, he found that Fred had embraced him. He opened his mouth to speak, but she placed a finger over his mouth, silencing him. "Hey, hey, hey," she murmured gently, her voice sweet and gentle. "Let's not think about that, Wesley. I'm back, and I'm here now, and that's all that matters."

He slipped his arms around her. "I know. It's still a little hard to believe, though…"

"I realize that," she assured him, looking up at him. "Let's change the subject, shall we? Where's your room at, Wesley?"

"Two more doors down, on the left." Throwing an arm around her shoulders, he began to guide her towards said room. "I…I have something for you in there."

"A present? For me?" she asked, a smile lighting up her delicate features. "Aww, Wes, you shouldn't have!"

"It's not exactly a present, per se." With his free hand, Wesley seized the doorknob, jimmying it slightly to rotate the sticky knob, before opening the door to his room. "It's more some things you left behind."

"Really, now?" She wandered around, peering at the bed with the gray coverlet, the desk devoid of papers, the books lined up in an orderly fashion on the bookcase. A small giggle escaped her. "Gosh, Wes, you're so organized! And yet, you chose to pursue something as chaotic and sporadic as magic!"

"I'm a man of many surprises," he replied, opening his closet. There, on the floor, amongst various shoes and boots, as well as a crumpled leather jacket from his days as the iconic bad-boy rogue vampire slayer, was a box simply labeled "Fred" in bold, black Sharpie letters. He lifted it up, carrying it over to his bed.

"What's this?" she asked, tapping the top of the box.

"What you left behind."

Reaching into the box, Fred drew out a rolled-up poster. A smile spread over her face as her slender fingers unrolled it, revealing a Dixie Chicks poster. "Hey, I remember this! This used to hang in my office!" Placing the poster on the bed, her hands dove back into the box, resurfacing with a small wall plate decorated with cowboys, a token purchased by her parents and hung in her nursery before she was even born. "This did, too! I remember how the sun always seemed to hit it best at 3:46 every afternoon…"

She sat the plate down, too, before her hands disappeared into the box once more. This time, they drew out a coffee cup, yellow with a blue, flowered strip around the mouth of the cup. Vibrant azure butterflies danced on the yellow part of the cup. "Hey, my favorite coffee cup!" she cried jubilantly. Her brown eyes lit up even more as she spotted smeared traces of red lipstick on the rim. "It even still has lipstick on it-I know this is going to sound strange, but it brings back memories. I remember you would bring me coffee sometimes, and it would always taste perfect, and how I secretly loved the gesture-I wanted to tell you all along how much I loved it. How much I loved _you_..."

Wesley nodded, a trace of a smile pulling on his lips. "I recall that, very much so. But…there's something else in here, something I know you'll love."

He dipped a hand into the box, digging through the newspaper-wrapped trinkets and bumping against the cardboard sides until his fingers finally closed around something worn and soft. He gently tugged it out of the box, before presenting it to Fred.

"Feighbaum!" She grabbed the worn plush rabbit, holding it against her chest. "I thought I'd lost him-I remember, just before the end…oh, I wanted him so badly, but I didn't know where he was. And then, I didn't know who he was at all." She gently nuzzled her cheek against the worn toy's head, before throwing her arms around Wesley. "Oh, thank you Wesley! Thank you for keeping all this!"

He gently returned her embrace. "I couldn't bear to get rid of it-it was all a part of you, Fred." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I felt as though, if I got rid of it, I was getting rid of you, trying to erase what was once you, what was once Fred. _My_ Fred."

Fred looked up at him, her chocolate eyes meeting his stormy ones. "Even if you had gotten rid of my things, I still would have been there, Wesley. I wouldn't have gone anywhere." Her arms tightened around him. "I'm not going anywhere."

A pregnant silence fell between them as they simply stood there, trapped in an embrace, staring into each other's eyes. Feeling her petite frame pressed against him, molding oh, so perfectly, was enough to have Wesley's blood boiling; he swooped in, claiming her lips with his own, earning a surprised squeak from the Texan woman. That squeak evolved into a sharp intake of breath as his lips ventured further south, down her neck, and, had it not been covered by her shirt, her collarbone.

"W-Wesley? What are you d-doing?" she stammered out.

"Something I've wanted to do for a long while, Fred," he murmured huskily against her throat. His hands, having a mind of their own, snaked under her shirt, caressing her smooth stomach, sending a shiver down her spine. "Tonight, I don't want any interruptions. Tonight, we're not magical experts or beautiful, genius physicists. Tonight, we're only lovers." He looked down at her, his hands coming to a rest on her waist. "Is that all right with you?"

She grinned, one hand tightening into the fabric of his shirt as though she was ready to yank it off. Her other hand moved to his face, taking his glasses by the bridge and pulling them off. "That's the best idea you've ever had."

***

"Mind telling us what the hell that was, Gunn?"

Glancing up from his hand of cards, the man in question faced Angel's inquiring visage. "What the hell was what?"

"You know what Captain Forehead's blathering about," Spike drawled, laying down two cards before taking a swig of beer. Nina dealt him two more cards, which, once glanced at, put a grin on his face. "Oh, _very_ nice."

"Spike, you have the worst poker face ever," Angel retorted, clearly taking a dig at the blonde in return for the Captain Forehead remark.

"Don't know what you're talking about," Gunn replied quickly.

"How you practically took off out the door when Fred tried to hug you," Spike reminded him, anteing up by tossing a chip into the center of the table. "You looked ready to climb out of your skin when she did hug you."

"You all noticed that?"

"I'll see your five, Spike, and raise you two," Nina said, throwing a few more chips into the pot. "And yes, Gunn, we did."

"So, you mind telling us what caused this little freak out?" Angel inquired, anteing up after Nina with a few chips of his own.

"Don't any of you find it suspicious that out of nowhere, Fred turns up, alive, awake, and separate from Illyria?" His dark eyes scanned the faces of his friends. "Well?"

"Well, it is a bit unusual," Angel agreed. "But we've had much more unnatural. We've had Spike, remember?"

"Hey!"

"But don't you remember what that doctor back at Wolfram and Hart said?" Gunn questioned, glancing at his cards before folding, laying them down on the table. "He said that Fred's soul had been destroyed in the Fires of Resurrection or some crap like that. There was nothing left of her!"

Angel looked nonplussed. "So?"

"So how did she come back?" he blurted out, leaping to his feet and nearly overturning the flimsy table they had set up to play at. "What if that thing Wesley's upstairs doing God knows what to _or_ with isn't the genuine, authentic Fred?"

"What else could it possibly be?" Nina asked.

"It could be a zombie."

Spike snickered. "Didn't know old Percy was into necrophilia."

"Spike, don't be disgusting," Angel warned.

"It could be a robot, or a cyborg. Remember that incident with Wesley's dad and the cyborg ninjas? It could very well be a robot Fred from the very same people."

"See?! I told you that sex with robots was more common than you thought!" Spike declared triumphantly, a cocky smirk spreading over his face.

"_Spike!_"

"Look, Gunn," Nina said, placing her cards face down on the table and fixing her dark green eyes on him. "I know it seems weird, but maybe it's just one of those things where we can't explain it-it's just happening, and we have to accept it."

"Like a miracle, you mean," Angel added in. Everyone at the table threw him confused looks, clearly not expecting the optimism or his admission that something as faith-based as miracles existed. "Hey, just because I'm a vampire doesn't mean I don't believe it God. I did once, remember?"

"As I was saying, maybe Fred's just…back. I mean, given what I've heard from all of you, the Powers That Be are notoriously fickle."

"They are," both vampires agreed simultaneously.

"I don't know," Gunn said hesitantly. "I still think something bad is going to go down."

"Just let it be for now, Gunn," Angel ordered. "Fred's back."

"And Wesley is happy, for once," Illyria added from her seat, her intense cerulean eyes unblinking as she stared at the table, the chips, and the cards in everyone hand's.

"So let's just leave it at that and bloody play poker, all right?" Spike finished emphatically, taking another gulp of beer before returning his attention to his cards. "Angel, Nina, you two in?"

"In." They both laid their cards on the table at the same time. Spike smirked as he glanced at their hands, before laying down his own.

"Read it and weep," he declared smugly, flaunting a nine, ten, Jack, King, and a wild ace in the place of the Queen. "I win."

"You sure do," Nina replied with a sigh, pushing the contents of the pot towards Spike.

"Damn," Angel hissed. "Good thing we don't play for money."

"You are frustrated," Illyria announced, her eyes flickering to the dark-haired vampire. "Over the loss of brightly-colored circles of plastic. Why?"

"It's a long story, love," Spike replied, counting the chips he'd gained with an expression of unbridled glee. "We'll tell you later."


	6. V: Interrupted Sleepwalking

_**A/N: **Hello, my freaky darlings! Back for more, I see? Well, that's good!_

_Thanks to **Leah Day**, **SpeedDemon315**, **RabidReject**, and **The Brat Princess** for their reviews!_

_**Disclaimer:** Still don't own any of Joss Whedon's kickass character. Sad face._

* * *

Freedom farewell  
Look in the lens  
Answer the questions  
Will you behave as required?  
When we think the end is here  
With nearly all faith gone  
There is hope along the way  
And there a new age dawns

None are more hopelessly enslaved than those  
who falsely believe that they are free

-"_Resign to Surrender-A New Age Dawns-Part IV_" by Epica

* * *

**Chapter Five: Interrupted Sleepwalking**

The headlights of the glossy black Mazda came to a rest on a large wrought-iron gate, which loomed up out of nowhere, a lonely guardian standing sentinel over a vast manor at the end of a one-lane road several miles outside of Los Angeles.

"Is this where you live?" Lindsey asked incredulously, peering from the backseat, where he rode with Eve and Doyle. Cordelia sat in the passenger's seat up front, while Morrigan drove. She'd spoken not a word the entire ride-matter of fact, she seemed oblivious to everything, from the outside world to her followers to the Lacuna Coil CD that was blaring almost at top volume.

"For now, yes," she replied tonelessly, opening a small compartment on the dash. A small transponder sat inside, bearing one single button. She pushed the button, and the gate slid open effortlessly.

"This place is a mansion!" Eve gasped, awestruck. Cordelia and Doyle, like their master, remained unfazed; this was nothing they hadn't already seen. "How did you find a place like this?!"

"I know a man who owes me a favor." A small grin came to her face as she guided her car up the driveway. "Several, actually."

As if sensing the approach of a car, the garage door opened with a rumble. Morrigan smoothly pulled the car into the cavernous space, before killing the engine and exiting the car. Cordelia, Lindsey, Doyle, and Eve scrambled out and fell into line behind her, following her out of the garage and into a small hallway like ducklings following their mother.

The hallway opened up into a vast kitchen, with gleaming marble countertops and stainless-steel appliances. The kitchen was impeccably clean, not a crumb on the counter or a dirty dish in the sink. A sleek cat with a coal-colored coat meandered up to sit at Morrigan's feet, its tail swishing as it entreated her with a pair of yellow-green eyes. A crimson collar encircled the cat's neck, a charm of a raven matching the one on Morrigan's necklace dangling from said collar.

"Thanatos!" she cried excitedly, bending down and scooping up the feline, who gave a welcoming meow as she did. "How's Mama's little boy?"

The cat purred, butting its head against her chin in a demand to be given attention. Obliging, she gently stroked his head, earning a louder purr for her actions. Still stroking the head of her beloved Thanatos (and looking ever the more like some villain from some old Saturday-morning cartoon), she turned to her followers.

"I'm going to retire for the evening," she informed them. "Cordelia, Doyle, I trust you to show Eve and Lindsey to their rooms without any hassle. And, if you need me, you know what to do."

"Knock before entering," Doyle and Cordelia chorused in unison.

"Very good," she replied, before retreating around a corner, out into the foyer. A sweeping staircase, fit for a castle, rose to the second floor; the wooden banister was intricately carved with a strange, macabre mix of grimacing skulls resting in the center of roses, while the carpet on the steps was the color of freshly-spilled blood. Like a princess, she ascended the stairs, turning left at the top and disappearing behind the double doors at the end of the hallway.

The room was dark; no lights had been left on to brighten the room. Morrigan let the door swing shut behind her, leaving her in blackness completely, and yet, she strode forward confidently, heading for her nightstand. Thanatos jumped from her arms, landing soundlessly on the bed. Meanwhile, his owner opened the small drawer of her nightstand, feeling around blindly until her hand closed around a book of matches. She lifted her hand, opening the book and producing a single match, striking it to set it alight, before putting the flame to a candle on her bedside table.

The ever-growing flame cast light upon a room that was decorated in more shades of black, gray, and red, a paradise for any goth in a room fit for royalty. An armoire made of rich black wood stood regally in the corner, while two nightstands of similar-colored wood flanked the impressive four-poster bed. Nigrine curtains hung down to offer privacy, and a bedspread of the same color covered the bed. It was turned down at the top to reveal satin sheets of red; a small white throw pillow, made of course linen and embroidered with a shamrock, rested docilely on the bed, the only speck of light color amongst the entire room. The candle she'd lit sat perched atop what, morbidly enough, appeared to be a human skull.

Thanatos strolled to her side of the bed, his eyes watching curiously as her hand delved back into the drawer, coming up with a stick of incense. She touched it to the candle's flame, setting it alight before she snuffed the tiny flames out, leaving the incense smoking, filling the room with the scent of clove, sage, juniper, and a slightly muskier, unnamed aroma.

Thanatos mewed inquisitively.

Closing her eyes, she took several deep breaths, inhaling the potent scent of burnt incense before opening her eyes again. The familiar dark sapphire of her irises now hid behind the opalescent sheen of a dead man's stare.

Another curious mew escaped her cat.

The necromancer's lips curled into a smile as she stared straight ahead with unseeing eyes.

"There you are."

* * *

_Winifred…Winifred…Wake up, Winifred._

With a small sigh, Fred rolled over, trying to block out the voice that kept whispering her name. She felt indulgently lazy, her limbs still heavy with pleasure after a night of very vigorous activity with Wesley. She had no intentions of waking up anytime soon.

_I told you to wake up, Winifred._

She made a small noise of protest, snuggling deeper into the gray comforter of Wesley's bed, which, despite its drab appearance, was actually quite comfortable.

_You _will_ wake up, Winifred._

The voice resounded harshly through her mind, stunning her senses; her eyes snapped open, their warm, chocolate depths devoid of emotion, of everything, making her look as though her soul had been sucked right out.

She threw back the covers, revealing Wesley's hands wrapped tight around her waist, his body spooned against hers. Her expression still blank, she pried his hands off, then stood and headed for the door, not caring that she wore not a stitch of clothing.

The hallways of the Hyperion were empty as she moved through them, driven to one single point for one single purpose that the voice in her head was calmly ordering her to do.

_Bring me Angel. Bring him alive._

She could vaguely remember where he slept, recalling how, after being rescued from Pylea, a few nights of fleeing to Angel's room like a scared child, pouring out her fears about the nightmares that plagued her. He would always assuage her fears before taking her back to her room, just like a father with his daughter.

She stopped before Angel's room, her small hand closing around the knob. With a quick twist of the knob, she thrust the door open, expecting to find the vampire asleep in his bed.

But he wasn't there. Instead, Nina was sprawled across the bed, the covers bunched around her knees, one arm flung across a pillow, as if there was supposed to be a person there. She was dressed in a turquoise tank top and a pair of striped shorts that barely brushed mid-thigh, and snoring lightly as she slept on.

Fred's features hardened slightly in frustration, but it was fleeting-she knew where else Angel could be. He may have been in his office. He was a notorious insomniac, anyways.

Abandoning her position at the door, she wandered down the hallway, until she found the point where the walls of the upper corridor disappeared, creating a sort of balcony overlooking the lobby. The vast room was empty, sunlight streaming through the frosted-glass doors onto the gleaming marble floors. The ghostly stain of the blood pentagram they'd painted on the floor trying to summon Connor back from Quor-Toth could still be seen in the middle of the lobby floor, but Fred paid no mind to that, or anything else in the lobby for that matter.

Angel wasn't here, either-but his office was right through the lobby.

She descended the stairs, down into the lobby, and began towards the back rooms, figuring that if Angel was nowhere else that he usually haunted, he'd be in his office. As she walked, she glanced at the weapons storage cabinet, which served to stop her in her tracks. She turned to the cabinet and peered at it, cocking her head to one side in a way reminiscent of Illyria.

Angel might come more willingly if she had a weapon.

* * *

The Hyperion Hotel was harder to find than Wolfram and Hart. Especially when driving.

Connor realized this as he turned onto the wrong street for the third time and was forced to drive five blocks before he could turn around. After twenty minutes, he finally found the hotel, breathing a sigh of relief as he parked his beat-up old truck in the pothole-ridden parking lot. With a flick of his wrist, he killed the engine and removed his keys, depositing them back into his pocket before strolling into the hotel. The weak afternoon sunshine streamed down, just barely overtaking the sky-not quite perfect weather for a vampire, but for someone like Connor, it was a good day.

The lobby of the hotel was dimly lit, owing to the opaque glass on both the front and back doors. It was also empty, which didn't surprise Connor-he knew everyone living at the Hyperion Hotel tended to keep a nocturnal schedule, so of course it was empty.

Or was it?

He noticed that the weapons cabinet was open, and someone's feet could be seen poking out from under the door, which puzzled Angel's son.

"Hello?"

Suddenly, the door slammed shut, revealing to him none other than Fred (of whom he only had the vaguest recollections, and whom he knew had died months ago) standing there, clutching Gunn's scythe-like ax in her small hands. Her blank brown eyes started intently at Connor, who had instantly averted his eyes to her nakedness.

"Oh, hey, Illyria…I guess I came at a bad time, should have knocked or something," he stammered, trying and failing to hold back the blush creeping over his cheeks. "You, um…wow, you look…different…you know, less…well, less blue."

"That is because she is not me," Illyria answered, strolling into the lobby from the back offices. "She is my former shell. They call her Fred."

"Oh-wait, Fred? How?"

"Fred?" Wesley's voice echoed from the upper floors, sounding a bit panicky. "Fred, are you down there?"

His voice came through the fog in Fred's mind clear and strong, slowly melting away the commanding voice, her blind obedience, and the singular goal she had in mind. Blinking, she shook her head as the haze lifted.

"Huh?" she asked, looking around at the lobby. "How'd I get down here?"

Wesley appeared at the top of the stairs, having heard her voice; he wore an old, loose shirt and pair of black pajama pants, both clearly thrown on in haste. At first, he looked relieved to see Fred, but then, a surprised look overtook that.

"What?"

"Bloody hell!"

Fred glanced over her shoulders, finding Spike, Angel, and Gunn behind her, all staring with the same shocked expression that Wesley wore on his face.

"What? What is it?"

"Fred," Angel began slowly. "Where are your clothes?"

At his words, her gaze dropped downward, only to find that, sure enough, she was completely naked. With an ear-piercing yelp, she dropped the ax, her small, shaking hands flying to cover herself in a vain attempt to preserve her decency. Her lover hurried down the stairs, pulling off his shirt as he did. As soon as he reached her side, he pulled his shirt over her head, helping her slide her arms through the sleeves.

"Fred, what are you doing down here?" Wesley inquired softly, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

"I don't know!" she told him. "I just…I woke up and I was here! I don't remember how I got here!"

"She was in here when I came in," Connor piped up, his face still a bit red. He gestured to the ax on the floor. "She had that."

"I don't know why I did…"

"Hello, Connor," Angel greeted, trying to diffuse some of the awkwardness of the situation. "What brings you here?"

"Just, um…just wanted to talk to you about something," his son replied. "About helping out here."

"I thought you had an apprenticeship or an internship or something to do with some kind of ship."

"Well, I do. But I could always use a day job. Well, I mean…night job."

"I see." Angel nodded, trying to be casual, but the awkwardness in the air still stubbornly remained. "How about we go discuss this in my office?" He made a motion to Wesley, indicating that he should take his lover back upstairs. The Englishman nodded, guiding the trembling physicist back towards their bedroom.

"By the way, Fred," Spike called after her, a mischievous grin on his face. "Never knew you had such a nice _ass_et, if you catch my drift."

Her face flushed a brilliant scarlet, while both Wesley and Angel groaned. Spike snickered, and Gunn seemed to be torn between hiding his face in his hand and chuckling; a snort escaped him as he tried to hold back laughter. As the sound of the blonde vampire's laughter reached her ears, Fred jerked away from Wesley, strode up to Spike, and slapped him soundly across the face. It wasn't hard enough to really do any damage, but it did leave a red mark in the shape of a hand on his face. She punctuated her slap with an angry glare, then turned to Gunn.

"I didn't do anything!" he quickly argued, taking a step back, seeing her hand tense in preparation to slap him.

Still glaring, she turned away and stormed off up the stairs, Wesley hurrying after her, on the borderline of shocked and amused. Angel and Connor disappeared into the back offices, and after a moment, Gunn chased after them, leaving Spike alone in the lobby with Illyria. The vampire raised his hand to his cheek, still bearing a slightly-stinging outline of Fred's hand, looking a bit stunned.

"You deserved that, you know," Illyria informed him bluntly. "Wesley has informed me that, in human culture, it is rude to make comments such as that to a woman when her male companion is present. So once again, you deserved it."

"I know. But it was bloody worth it."

* * *

_**A/N:** Oh, Spike, you and your shenanigans..._


	7. VI: Six Weeks Past Due

_**A/N: **Okay, so...it's been about five months since I updated this particular story. Yeah. I'm sorry about that. It's been really, really busy, and I guess this story just sort of fell by the wayside. However, I promise that I'll update this story more often (as often as I can in the future!)_

_I'd like to thank **SpeedDemon315, RabidReject, **and **The Brat Princess **for their reviews!_

_**Disclaimer: **Don't own Angel. That still belongs to Joss Whedon, the lucky bastard.

* * *

_

"So one day, he found her crying

Coiled up on the dirty ground

Her prince finally came to save her

And the rest she can figure out

But it was a trick

And the clock struck twelve

So make sure to build your home

Brick by boring brick

Or the wolf's gonna blow it down

Keep your feet on the ground

When your head's in the clouds

Well go get your shovel

And we'll dig a deep hole

To bury the castle, bury the castle

Well go get your shovel

And let's dig a deep hole

To bury the castle, bury the castle."

-_"Brick by Boring Brick" _by Paramore

* * *

**Chapter Six: Six Weeks Past Due**

Six weeks passed without anything noteworthy.

And to Morrigan, this was not a good thing. By nature, she couldn't resist chaos. It almost amused her to see humans running about like chickens with their heads cut off. But more than that, it seemed to give her a sense of peace-watching people lose their minds in chaos while knowing that, in her little world, everything was going just swimmingly.

But it wasn't just the lack of madness in Los Angeles that disturbed her-there was something that disturbed her even more.

Doyle, Cordelia, Lindsey, and Eve had not failed to notice this, to take note of her shortened temper. And they all knew the very source of Morrigan's frustrations, too…

"This insubordination is vexing me to no end," she complained to the four loyal devotees, whom she had called into her office for the point of venting to. "In all my years in the business of necromancy, this is"-She paused.-"Quite unprecedented."

"How terribly rude of her, to behave in such a way," Eve stated disapprovingly.

"You know what would have happened if I had acted the same way she's been acting while I was still at Wolfram and Hart?" Lindsey inquired with a rueful smile. "They would have chopped off my other hand."

The necromancer's sapphire eyes came to rest on Cordelia. "You did fill her in on her expected duties under my fealty, did you not?"

"Every last detail, to a t," Cordelia responded with a firm nod.

"Including the expectation of weekly check-ins and reports of progress, as well as prompt responses to any mental contact and obedience of all commands the first time they're given?"

"Explicitly."

"And did you mention the consequences that befall those who don't listen?"

"I gave her enough gory details to get your message across."

She leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other and raising a finger to rest against her mouth in thought. "Then she's either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid."

"So what do we do?" Doyle questioned.

There was a long moment of silence before Morrigan finally answered. "Cordelia, I'm sending you out to deliver a warning to our little rebel. She's got one last saving grace, and then"-She narrowed her eyes with a nefarious smirk.-"It's game over."

* * *

"Come on, Angel, I really need you to help me with this."

The aforementioned vampire eyed the camera clutched in Fred's hands with suspicion. "And how do I know this film is only going to capture my likeness, not do something else?"

"Like what? Unless she's more of a genius than I originally thought, I doubt she fit a wooden stake or sunlight into the bloody camera," Spike stated cheekily.

"Hey, I have to ask these things."

"Trust me, Angel, it's safe," Wesley promised, coming up behind Fred and wrapping his arms around her waist. "I watched her create the film and adapt the camera myself."

"More than watched-he helped me create the film and modify the camera!" she gushed brightly, leaning back into her lover's arms and exchanging a quick kiss with him.

Angel heaved a sigh, sounding for all the world as if they'd asked him to build the pyramids single-handedly. "All right, fine. I'll do it."

"Good!" Fred chirped. "Now, take off your shirts, both of you."

"What?" Angel yelped.

Spike chuckled, peeling his black T-shirt from his body and yanking it over his head with no hesitations. "Thought you'd never ask."

"Come on, Angel," Fred pleaded. "Just take your shirt off."

"Why?" he protested. "You're taking pictures. Why do I need to remove my shirt for that?"

"Because I want to test the camera with broad expanses of vampire skin. Just to make sure it really works."

"Sure that isn't just an excuse to see us without our shirts on?" Spike snickered, raising a brow, a wicked, teasing grin on his face. Wesley frowned, not amused.

"Don't press you luck, Spike."

"Anyways," the blonde vampire continued, oblivious to Wesley, "stop crying and take your bloody shirt off, Captain Forehead!"

"I don't know…"

Illyria, who had been passing behind him, reached out and snagged the back of his shirt, giving a forceful tug. The seams ripped in a cacophony of threads snapping and cloth tearing, and the back of the black sweater came away in her hands. The front of the sweater, now unsupported, drifted lazily to the floor. With a surprised yelp, Angel quickly crossed his arms over his bare chest.

"Illyria!"

She blinked owlishly at him. "Fred asked you to remove your shirt. I was merely helping you comply."

"I didn't ask for your assistance!"

"Yes, but you weren't obeying Fred, when you agreed to do what she asked. Now, you are obeying Fred." She stared blankly at him for a long minute. "I don't see what the problem is."

That being said, she strolled off, stopping once she'd passed Fred and Wesley and observing the scene from a distance.

"Come on, Angel," the physicist cajoled gently. "Just a few? Please?"

"All right." Begrudgingly, he uncrossed his arms. "Fine."

"Oh, come on, Angel, why so shy all of a sudden?" Nina asked, strolling in with a grin on her face that, appropriately enough, could be described as wolfish. "You never have any problem taking your shirt off around me. Or your pants, for that matter."

"Nina!"

"Ah, so Captain Forehead is a bit bolder in the bedroom!" Spike goaded, his wicked grin intensifying. "And here now, I thought he'd be even more boring in the sack than Percy over here." He jerked a thumb at Wesley, who frowned.

"I resent that."

"Don't worry, Wes-you're anything but boring behind closed doors," Fred promised, before turning back to her two bickering subjects. "Now, are you two ready?"

"I've been ready for ages!" the British vampire exclaimed, pointing indignantly at Angel, who had shoved his hands in the pockets of his pants. "It's the prude over here who's holding everything up!"

"Spike, shut up before I shut you up for good," the aforementioned vampire growled.

"What are you going to do? Dust me?"

"Don't tempt me. We have plenty of wooden stakes."

"You'd have to catch me first, old man."

"Being older than you means I'm faster than you, idiot. Stronger, too."

"The hell it bloody does!"

"With age comes speed and strength in vampires, you should know this by now."

"Bullocks! Who told you that? Stephenie Meyers? We know how much that old bag knows about-"

"ENOUGH!" Fred suddenly bellowed, astonishingly loud given her small size. Both vampires immediately stopped bickering, instead staring at her in astonishment. Neither could ever remember her losing her temper, shouting-raising her voice a bit, yes, but losing her temper and hollering wasn't Fred's forte.

She narrowed her eyes at them. "Can't you two give it a rest for a minute? I swear, it's ridiculous how much you two fight! I just need both of you to act like you like each other long enough for me to take a few simple pictures. Can you do that?"

Angel nodded mutely.

"Yes, ma'am," Spike replied, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Good!" And instantly, Fred's cheerful, bubbly demeanor was back; she raised the camera. "Say cheese!"

"Cheese..?" both vampires echoed, giving slightly nervous smiles. Fred hit the button, capturing the likeness of both of them on film. She took several more pictures of her suddenly-hesitant subjects, before lowering the camera.

"All right, let's see how these turned out! I'll be right back!" she promised, before scurrying off in the direction of an empty room, which had had a wall removed to add more space, and had been converted into Fred's science lab. It wasn't quite as grand as the lab at Wolfram and Hart, but she'd still gushed over it, hugged Nina and Illyria, and kissed all the boys (even sullen old Angel) on the cheek as if they'd provided her the scientist's version of Heaven.

"Well, that was certainly interesting," Wesley commented lightly, watching her go.

"Bloody hell!" Spike swore, pulling his shirt back on, before glaring at the Brit. "What did you put in her coffee this morning? She's never acted like this!"

"That was strange," Nina murmured. "One hell of a mood swing."

"Yeah, from pissed to obnoxiously cheery in three seconds flat," the British vampire grumbled. "Don't get me wrong, I like her and all, but I may have to take some action if that becomes a permanent fixture." He cast a glance at Wesley. "And you're not gonna like what I do, Percy."

"You best not hurt her!" Wesley snapped, glaring at Spike.

"I wonder," Nina continued, though her words went unnoticed by most.

"What? You wonder what?" Angel asked, turning to her.

She shook her head. "It's nothing. Don't worry about it."

Brow furrowed in concentration, Fred laid the photo negatives into the solution, to develop them. They would need to soak in the chemicals for a few hours, and wouldn't be ready right away, but she couldn't help but feel this batch may have turned out good. Finally, after weeks of a scientist's closest friend, disappointment, today might be the day she would get decent results.

Leaving the photos to develop, she stepped out of the closet-turned-darkroom, closing the door…only to receive a very nasty surprise. Cordelia stood behind the door, arms folded across her chest, her face sober, vaguely angry.

"Oh-hello, Cordie," she greeted nervously, putting a hand to her chest to try to still her rushing heart.

"Winifred," she answered coldly. "You've been a terrible girl, you know that, right?"

"I have?"

Her comrade nodded solemnly. "You're supposed to report to our lady every week, remember?"

For a moment, she only frowned, confused, but Cordelia's words soon set off alarms of reckoning in her mind. Her eyes widened in mild terror. "Oh, no."

"You're six weeks past due, Winifred," Cordelia scolded, shaking her head with a slight noise of scorn. "Our lady is not pleased."

"Tell her I'll come-today," the physicist pleaded, a note of desperation in her voice. "Matter of fact, I'll come with you. Right now. I've got time."

"That's a wise plan, Winifred." Perching herself on the windowsill of an open window she'd presumably come in through, Cordelia thrust her bronze legs out, watching over her shoulder as Fred locked the door, to keep out anyone who might come looking for her. "After all, our lady gave you everything you have now, Winifred. Without her, you'd have nothing. You'd _be _nothing."

She turned her head away, staring ahead at the asphalt and brick alley that lay before her, her face suddenly weary. "We all would."

* * *

_**A/N: **In case you were wondering, no, I couldn't resist the jibe against Stephenie Meyers. I really couldn't._


End file.
